Fire and Ice
by rowanwolfe1
Summary: Set after an imagined end to the ASOIAF book series. 70 years after the War of Ice and Fire, Raya Stark discovers she is to be married to Daeron Targaryen. But she is a true Stark, and belongs in the North, where winter is coming and the old gods are close. Does fire melt ice? Only time will tell, and soon Raya will be south.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: the setting & some of the characters belong to the illustrious George RR Martin. The rest is my own.

I suppose this isn't really 'fanfiction'... It's more of a story that I wrote based on the characters & places in ASOIAF. But it is inspired by my love of the books, so make what you will of it.

Disclaimer 2: I'm not a particularly good writer, but I love to write, so I hope you enjoy my ideas. Happy reading!

(this is more drama than romance.. I'm not the greatest at writing romance)

* * *

Her favourite time of day was night, when the sky was void of light and the world was quiet. She would stare up at the stars, imagining that she was a ship sailing in a great, vast ocean of nothingness, the tiny, flickering lights of a billion distant lighthouses her only source of guidance through the heavens. When the castle was quiet she would climb through her window and sit on the great stone sill, her legs curled underneath her. She would trace constellations for hours, until her limbs grew numb from the unforgiving cold of the stone beneath her and the sharp, dark air that rolls off the moors of the North.

To her, there was something wonderfully bleak about the world at night. During the day, there were warm fires, soft smiles, endless curtsies and frivolities, and the soothing peace of a bath as the sun sank in the sky outside. But at night, there was only stone, darkness, and the slow, steady movement of torches held in soldiers' hands on the ramparts.

All she knew of the world was from books, tutors, and the men who come to bow before her father. These men fascinated her. They wore boiled leather and steel, and had swords at their sides. Their faces were rough, their beards long and wild, their eyes sharp, as if they had seen everything. They spoke in barks and growls, never minding what they were saying, free to curse and laugh in great bellows. They drank deep from pitchers until their faces were red and their words slurred, and they clapped each other heartily on the back, happy to forget the harshness of the world.

She envied these men, though not the wars they had seen or the men they had killed. She envied their freedom, however hard and cold it may be. She envied the carelessness to their words and the easy camaraderie they held with their men. She watched them ride away on their horses, their banners held aloft before them by boys younger than her who would see more than she ever would, and she envied the way they were able to ride easily to places she had only dreamed of.

She knew that she was lucky. She was the daughter of the King in the North, a man who was not only loved and respected throughout the kingdom, but who was kind and thoughtful to his family. She had grown up with everything a girl could want: a horse, an airy chamber with a view of the godswood, and a dozen dresses of silk and lace and thick, soft wool. She lived in the most beautiful region of Westeros, in a place of cold wind and rolling hill. She was safe from the cruelty of men and the dangers of a country only recently brought to peace.

But she was not free. She was a woman in a land ruled by men. She would be married soon, to a boy she would most likely have never seen or talked to before in her life. She was restricted by the delicacy and elegance expected of a lady. She must ride her horse only in the company of guards. She was the oldest of her siblings, but was not her father's heir. She spent her days sewing and sipping tea in the company of her mother while her brothers practiced with their swords in the yard. And when she managed to convince her father to allow her to try her hand at sword and shield, she was only allowed to do so after much begging and pleading, and only when nobody was watching.

Up there, at night, she did not have to act according to the rules of generations of men. Up there, there was only her body, the pounding of her heart, and the cold wind of the world. Up there, she could hear the wind in the grass, could smell the peat of the godswood, and could believe that she was anybody else but Raya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, the King in the North.

She went inside only when the cold has become unbearable and her mind has been wiped blank by the night. She scrambled through the window, landing lightly on the rough stone floor of her chamber, and slammed it shut behind her. One last gust of air passed over her face before a pane of glass no thicker than her smallest finger locked the night away. She paced the length of her room, walking warmth into her legs, and the bare soles of her feet make quiet padding noises on the floor. The flames from the torches on either side of the door shed soft, flickering lights over the canopy bed, the thick fur carpet, the bindings of the books in the bookcase, the brown leather armchair, and the wide stone fireplace. Gale, the old family dog, was curled up in a grey heap at the foot of her bed, his twitching feet all she would ever see of what made him whimper and snort in his dreams.

Her skin stung as it grew accustomed to the warmth of her chambers, and with the gradual increase in body temperature came a sudden tiredness. Stifling a yawn, she made her way towards the bed. Gale jerked awake as she pulled the hangings back and he raised his shaggy grey head towards her, blinking.

"Sorry boy," she murmured, pulling back the soft linen blankets covering her bed so that she could scramble into their gentle embrace. Earlier in the night, the blankets would have been soothingly warm from a bed warmer. But now, hours since a servant had come to take the warmer away, they were cool, and only heated up once she had been under them for a few minutes. Gale rose to his feet, stretched, and lumbered over to curl up beside her with his nose grazing her hip. She smiled to herself, and soon the warmth of his furry body had seeped through the many layers between them.

For a long while, she stared at the hangings that surrounded her, tracing patterns in the rich embroidery that filled the fabric from top to bottom, the soft, trailing lines of silver thread. Every piece of cloth or upholstery in the room was of the finest linen, and was beautifully embroidered in the colours of winter. Her chambers were a walking testament to her title, to the place she held in society as the daughter of the King in the North. The feet of each of the wooden posts that rose from the four corners of her bed were hand crafted to look like wolf's claws, and the headboard behind her had the sigil of House Stark, a direwolf, carved deeply into its dark wooden surface. The room, like the castle itself and the people inside it, carried the essence of the rolling moors of the North and of winter itself.

She could never fall asleep without reading, and so she reached for the heavy, leather-bound book on her bedside table. It was a thick volume, dog-eared and stained from nearly seventy years of reading and rereading. Her great-grandfather, Wyman Manderly, was the author, and it was he who had passed the book down to her grandmother, Wylla, who passed it on to her mother, Ferrah, who passed it on to her. She had read the book a half a dozen times, and could recite passages from memory, but on nights like these, when the air was cold and carried with it a hint of the coming winter and the night was darker than usual, she only read the prologue. She turned to the first page.

 _Vengeance_

 _A northerner's account of the Vengeful War, oft called the War of Ice and Fire, as told by Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour and Hand to the King in the North, Rickon Stark._

 _Prologue_

 _Those who came out of the first war victorious were lions and twin towers and flayed men. Men who tortured to the point of insanity, men who massacred their liege lords at wedding feasts, and men who raped, murdered, and pillaged the innocent. These were the men who won. To them, the war was practically easy._

 _And then there was us. The North. We were murdered and betrayed and destroyed, and for years after the war we sat under the_ _pretence_ _of a bent knee and suffered the presence of traitors and villains and godless men. We drank mead with the soldiers who had killed our sons; we sat council with the lords who had betrayed our king. We bowed low to the men who had painted the land red with_ our _blood._

 _But we were never broken. Our enemies shoved a wolf's head onto our king's neck, and we began to whisper. The whispers started low... then they grew louder. The Boltons proclaimed themselves to be our lords, and we spat into our cups and called them scum. We reminded ourselves that we bow not to flayed men, but to direwolves. In private, we recited the words of the North like a mantra, over and over again. Winter is coming._

 _And it did. Winter came, but with ice came fire, and with fire came blood and dragons. An army returned to Westeros, an army of exiles and eunuchs, led by a young girl born of storm and smoke, and her prince nephew, returned from the dead. They came on the backs of dragons, and with the arrival of the blood of old Valyria came the banners of Dorne. A third, riderless dragon of green and bronze flew away and returned with a dark-haired bastard from the Wall. He had blacks on his back and a crow on his shoulder._

 _Jon Snow had blood of ice and of fire, and with this discovery came a new alliance. We who were loyal to ice followed the last remaining wolf, joined with those loyal to fire, and a vagabond army from the east transformed into a single unit hell-bent on revenge. For them, it was revenge for Rhaegar and Lyanna, Elia and Rhaenys, and the throne that was rightfully theirs. For us, it was revenge for Eddard, beheaded at the Sept of Baelor, for Catelyn and Robb, slain at the Red Wedding, and for our northern kin killed in the war. And as the loyal North swelled and turned on our betrayers, lone wolves returned from hiding to lead us. From the Vale came Alayne, her innocence long torn away by lions and hounds and mockingbirds. From Braavos came nothing, wielding sword and the smell of death. From the wilderness of the North came a lost boy and his black beast, fierce and alone. And from beyond the wall came the broken boy, blessed by the Old Gods._

 _Manderly, Flint, Glover, Dustin, Reed, Locke, Tallhart, Umber, Mormont, and Cerwyn. Martell, Blackmont, Dayne, Dalt, Yronwood, Santagar, Qorgoyle, and Uller. Sansa, Arya, Brandon, and Rickon of House Stark. Daenerys and Aegon of House Targaryen. Jon Snow. The Gold Company and the Unsullied. Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon. We waited for years, and once we got our army, we slew the traitors who had murdered our kings, our queens, our lords, and our kin._

 _Those from the South called it the War of Ice and Fire. But we of ice and fire called it something different._

 _We called it vengeance._

She set the book down, her ears ringing as they always did with the powerful words of her great-grandfather. She had been born seventy years after the war ended, but she had grown up learning of it, being made to read countless books and scrolls detailing the life of the victors: Aegon VI, who was killed in battle during the Vengeful War, and Daenerys, who reclaimed the iron throne at last – together, they were remembered as the Dragons Reborn; Jon Snow, who came to be known as the Lost Prince; the four remaining Starks, her blood, all of whom had been thought to be dead; the soldiers of the North, the Golden Company, and the Unsullied; and the three dragons, one black, one cream, one green and bronze. And she knew of the lives of those conquered: Walder Frey, who was executed for treason, having murdered his king and thousands of Stark men; Roose Bolton, who suffered the same fate for betraying the North; Cersei Lannister, who was imprisoned for countless crimes.

It was through all she'd been taught that she'd become a proud northerner, made even prouder by the family she came from: the Starks, the first to reclaim their title as the Kings of Winter since Torrhen Stark, and the Manderlys, who were said by many to have been the most loyal in the North, for it was her great-grandfather who had been true to the Starks until the very end. It was Wyman Manderly who had killed the three Freys that were sent to marry his granddaughters, and who fed them to the treacherous lords Bolton and Frey in the form of meat pie. It was Wyman Manderly who had sent Ser Davos Seaworth to find Rickon Stark, the very boy that would later become the King in the North and who would slice off Walder Frey's head. It had been on Wyman Manderly's orders that fifteen thousand soldiers from White Harbour, led by a vengeful Walden Manderly, had joined the battered yet determined army coming down from the North to fight a war with dragons thought dead.

She fell asleep with the memories of her long-dead relatives in her head, and she dreamt of wolves and screaming men.


	2. Chapter 2

"King's Landing?" She exclaimed, incredulous. "I'm being shipped off to King's Landing?"

She was sitting in front of the weirwood of the godswood with her father. Above them, the sky was overcast and grey, the air carried with it a promise of rain, and the branches of the ancient tree rattled in the wind. She was wrapped in a thick wool cloak, and since she had left the warmth of the castle she had been shivering in the early morning cold. But now, with the heat of anger coursing through her veins, she felt as if she could last hours out there in just her smallclothes.

"You are to marry Daeron Targaryen, Raya," her father responded evenly. "Your place will be in King's Landing, as a princess of the Iron Throne." He fixed her with a stern look from his dark grey eyes, which were so much like her own. _Stark eyes,_ Raya thought angrily. _Eyes of the North._

"I'm a princess of the Throne of Winter _,_ father," she argued. "This is where I belong. In the North, not in some southern city."

"I know it is a big change," her father said, "but you've known for quite some time now that you were to be married to a lord outside of Winterfell."

"I've known I was going to be married, but not to some prince outside the kingdom! And I am your eldest daughter. Why is it that I must go to Daeron Targaryen and become a princess of the South, and he cannot come to Winterfell to become a prince of the North?"

"You know that is not how this works, Raya," her father responded, and he attempted to place a comforting hand on her shoulder but she brushed it away.

"And you know that out of all of your children, I have the truest Stark blood running through my veins. I belong in the North. In Winterfell." She countered. For a moment her father only looked at her, his expression unreadable, and she knew that he wouldn't deny what she had said. Raya's two younger siblings, Jon and Edrick, were both Manderly through and through, with their round faces, dusky brown heads of hair, and green-blue eyes. But she was a true Stark, made slender and lean, with dark hair and eyes the colour of the sky above them.

"Yes, Raya, you are a true daughter of the North," her father said slowly. "But in the Vengeful War those of ice and those of fire joined together for the first time in hundreds of years. Since then, House Stark and House Targaryen have been as close as any two houses in Westeros, though they rule over separate kingdoms. Through your marriage to Daeron, you will make this alliance even stronger."

"So marry Edrick to one of the Targaryens," Raya responded icily. "I plan on living and dying in the North."

Since she had been born, Raya had never doubted her place in the windswept moors surrounding Winterfell. She could spend hours riding horseback (of course, only in the company of her guards) across the land or through the Wolfswood; she had never found a place where she felt so at peace than when she was sitting beneath the spreading, bone-white branches of the weirwood, as she was now; and when snow fell down in icy drifts and men and women turned rosy-cheeked from the cold, she felt as if she came alive, as if she had been asleep in those years when winter was merely coming. Out of her siblings, she was the only one who sought peace of mind in the quiet solitude of the godswood; while Jon kept the old gods, he preferred a sword in the courtyard to quiet meditation in the godswood, and Edrick took after their Manderly mother, turning to the seven-pointed star of the Faith and the small sept of Winterfell in times of trouble.

Yet now it seemed that she would be ripped away from the place she loved with all her heart. The bearded, wild lords of the North, whom Raya had always gotten along with, would be replaced with prim, soft-spoken, southern lords and ladies wearing not boiled leather and hard iron, but Myrish lace and gilded steel. The cold, clear air that rolled off the open moors of the North would become hot and stuffy. And, above all, the small piece of freedom she had had in Winterfell would change the moment she crossed the border into the South. No longer would she practice sword and shield in the darkness of dusk, away from the eyes of those who might think it unfit for a lady to fight. No longer would she be able to speak as freely as she did within the walls of Winterfell. She had always known that her father had been lenient with her, allowing her to experience things that no other woman in Westeros would. She knew that it was because he saw that she was more Stark than Manderly, dark-haired and grey-eyed and wild, and she reminded him of his sister, who had died long before Raya was born. Yet still she had felt restricted, had felt tied down by the fact that she was a woman. She could only imagine how suffocated she would feel in the South, where women were nothing more than wives to their husbands.

To Raya, it seemed terribly unfair that her father would tear her from the North, when the North was who she was.

"You will marry Daeron, Raya," her father's sharp tone cut through Raya's melancholy thoughts, bringing her back to the present. She noticed that it had begun to rain, softly now, but there was a hint of a storm in the heavy air. "This is not your decision to make."

"I won't –"

"The arrangements have been decided. You will leave for King's Landing in two month's time." He said, interrupting her before she could protest. She gazed at him, and for once found that she was speechless, struck dumb by the weight of the emotions coursing through her mind and through, it seemed, her very veins. He paused, and must have seen the look in her eyes, for his expression softened and he ran a tired hand across his face, suddenly looking much older. "I know this isn't what you want, but it is what must be done."

With that, Eddard Stark stood up, glanced once at Raya with something like regret in his dark eyes, and then walked away, leaving her to her fate beneath the weirwood. As he swept past, his thick wool cloak brushed across her shoulder, and with it came the smell of earth and stone and smoke. The smell of Winterfell. As her father's footsteps faded behind her, Raya gazed up at the blood-red leaves of the tree of the old gods, then at the the twisted face in its trunk, and she felt her heart ache for all that she would soon lose. As if in response, the heavens opened above her and the storm broke, fat droplets of rain falling down from the sky in sheets. The water mixed with the scarlet tears that leaked out of the face of the weirwood, and as they began to fall in earnest it was as if the old gods, too, were mourning.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're really going?" Edrick asked, his voice cracking under the strain of holding in the tears that threatened to spill out of his sea-green eyes. He was gazing up at her, a crease between his eyebrows. Raya felt a wave of sadness as the looked down at her nine-year-old brother, who was wearing a heavy fur cloak that made him seem even smaller than he already was.

"I'm really going," she confirmed. For a moment, Edrick said nothing, and his gaze shifted from hers so that he was staring at the ground. But then he threw his arms around her, and she knelt down to return his hug, as a fresh wave of sorrow swept over her. They were standing in the main courtyard by the South Gate. Raya's family was standing in a line beside Edrick, and behind them were three members of her father's kingsguard, a group of soldiers from their houseguard, and beyond them a crowd of villagers. All were there to see Raya off. In front of the South Gate, she knew, her carriage sat in wait, along with a group of soldiers made up of members of the kingsguard and the houseguard, and her father, who would accompany her to King's Landing.

"I'll miss you, little brother." She murmured into Edrick's ear. He didn't respond, but pulled away and, shooting her a quick, sad look, went to stand beside their mother. Jon quickly took his place, stepping forwards so he was standing in front of her. He was two years her junior, but already he was quite a bit taller than her, his brown hair wavy and slightly dishevelled from the wind that was blowing over the walls and through the courtyard. He didn't say anything, but pulled her into a hug.

"Send me a raven when you get to King's Landing, will you?" He said once they had parted. "Let me know how it is."

"I will," she said, but she couldn't help the rush of envy that swept through her at her younger brother's words. He would one day become the King in the North, and would live and die in Winterfell. That fact was undeniable. He would marry, but it wouldn't change anything about his future: his wife would join him in Winterfell, as Queen in the North, and they would live out their days as such.

"You know it won't be the same here without you," he added, almost as if he had sensed what she had been thinking. She shifted her attention back to him and saw the sadness in his gaze, but it was the guilt hidden beneath that sparked a memory, one she had forgotten until then, of a time when they were younger and more carefree.

 _"I don't understand," Jon said, staring at their father in confusion. They were standing in the courtyard, and Jon was holding a wooden sword in one of his hands, his other wiping the sweat off of his forehead. He had just finished a lesson with Ser Arwyck, the castle's master-at-arms. "Why can't Raya learn how to fight as well?"_

 _"Because ladies don't need to learn how to fight," Eddard said. "They have their guards to protect them and, when they grow older, their husbands."_

 _"But what if I don't want a husband?" Raya cut in before Jon, who still looked confused, could say anything. Eddard looked down at her, smiling, and ruffled her hair._

 _"You're young, Raya," he chuckled. "You don't want one now, but you will soon."_

 _"But what if I don't?"_

 _"Every lady wants a husband, little princess."_

 _"Not me!" Raya insisted, gazing up at her father beseechingly._

 _"When Raya gets a husband, then will she become Queen in the North?" Jon cut in, and Eddard swung his gaze towards his son._

 _"No, Jon," he said. "You're my heir. You will become King in the North when my reign is over."_

 _"But… That doesn't make sense." Jon said slowly, his eyebrows bunched together. "She's older than me. Why can't she be queen?"_

 _"You are my firstborn son," Eddard said, and there was edge of impatience to his voice. "You remember this from your lessons with Maester Brishin. The firstborn son is the heir, not the firstborn daughter. Raya will marry a lord and become a lady of a wonderful castle in another place."_

 _"But I don't_ want _to leave Winterfell!" Raya exclaimed, her eyes wide._

 _"I don't want Raya to leave either," Jon added. "Who will I play with when she's gone?"_

 _"You can play with Edrick."_

 _"But he's so_ little. _"_

 _"He'll be bigger then." Eddard responded, smiling. "And Raya, it will be an adventure, moving away from Winterfell. You love adventures!"_

 _"Not this one…" Raya grumbled. It didn't seem at all fair to her. Why should Jon be allowed to stay in Winterfell while she was sent far away? "Would I be able to stay here if I were a boy?"_

 _"Well… yes."_

 _"I wish I had been born a boy, then." She grumbled, gazing down at her hands, which she knew were smooth and soft compared to her younger brother's rough, callused ones. But then a sudden flash of hope welled up in her, and she gazed excitedly at her father, who was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Could Maester Brishin turn me into a boy? Maesters learn magic at the Citadel, don't they? He could turn me into one!"_

 _Jon had been watching Raya, and as she spoke he too looked excitedly at their father._

 _"Could she become a boy, father? Really?"_

 _"No," Eddard said, laughing. "Maester Brishin can't turn Raya into a boy."_

 _"Why not?" Raya asked, scowling._

 _"Because it's not possible," he responded, amusement dancing in his grey eyes, when one of his kingsguard stepped up behind him._

 _"Your Grace?" The knight asked, bowing as the king turned to him._

 _"What is it, Ser Elyn?"_

 _"Queen Ferrah is requesting your presence," the knight responded. Eddard nodded in his direction, then turned back to Raya and Jon._

 _"I must go." He said, and he ruffled Jon's hair and rested a hand briefly on Raya's shoulder before he followed Ser Elyn through the doors of the castle and out of sight. Once they were gone, Jon turned to Raya. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and a frown on his face._

 _"I wish you were father's heir," he said suddenly, unexpectedly. Raya stared at him, confused._

 _"Don't you want to be king?" She asked. Jon shrugged, but it was a while before he responded._

 _"I just think you would be good at it, that's all," he said simply. "I don't see why someone who would be good at ruling shouldn't be allowed to."_

Ever since that day, there had been something unspoken that had stood between them. Raya loved her brother, and the fact that he would become King in the North even though she was older than him didn't lessen her affection for him, though she suspected that he had always felt guilty about it. But there were times, when she had been feeling especially angry or frustrated, where she had spoken a few choice words to her brother, words that she assured him afterwards she hadn't meant, but that she knew she always had, though not towards him. And ever since that day, whether he was receiving private lessons from their father on how to be a good and honourable king, or whether he was learning how to fight in the yard and not under the cover of darkness, like Raya was made to, the distance between them had widened ever so slightly.

"See you, Raya," Jon's words brought her attention back to the present and she watched regretfully as he returned to stand beside Edrick. She would miss him, she realized. She really would miss him.

Her mother stepped forwards now, and there was a small, sad smile on her face. It was her mother that Raya had gotten her beauty from. Eddard was a true Stark, strong and wild-looking, but Ferrah Manderly was striking: long and slender, with large, blue-green doe eyes and a thin, pale face framed by waist-length chestnut-brown hair.

"Farewell, sweetheart," she said, and there were tears brimming in her eyes as she wrapped Raya up in a tight embrace. Raya returned the hug, and she felt a jolt of pain run through her at the thought of leaving her mother. She knew that she had been a difficult daughter, always refusing to use her manners or act at all ladylike, and had lost count of the number of times her mother had lost her temper at her. But despite her stubborn refusal to act as she was supposed to, her and her mother had always remained close. Raya was the only princess to the Throne of Winter after all, and they shared the type of bond particularly special to a mother and her only daughter.

"Goodbye, mother," Raya whispered, for she was afraid that if she spoke any louder her voice would crack, betraying the emotions she was trying so hard to keep in check. She rarely cried, for she hated seeming weak. Even today, she refused to betray the fact that saying farewell to her family, her city, her kingdom, was just about destroying her.

At last her mother released her and stepped back into line, and now Raya said farewell to the friends she had made, to her ladies-in-waiting that she would be leaving behind, and to those of her father's guard that wouldn't be escorting her to King's Landing.

When she had said goodbye to them all, she turned and made her way to where her carriage was waiting by the South Gate. Her father was standing by the door, and opened it for her as she approached. With one foot on the step to the carriage, she turned around and gazed for a final time at the Great Keep, the Great Hall, the Bell, Library, and Broken towers, and, in the distance, the very top of the weirwood, which she could just see over the walls surrounding the godswood. Her heart gave a terrible twist of pain at the sight of those blood-red leaves, which were swaying steadily in the cold breeze. Though she had already said her farewells to the godswood, it wasn't any easier to look at it and realize that it might be for the last time. So she stared long and hard at the portion of weirwood that she could see, drawing up the image of the twisted, tortured face etched into it, the lines of scarlet sap that trailed beneath it like tears, and the feeling of its smooth trunk, which in all her years she had run her hands along too many times to count. And then, with a deep breath, she turned and clambered into the carriage, her ladies-in-waiting close behind her. Within moments, the carriage rattled to a start and soon they were through the South Gate, through Winter's Town, and had officially left Winterfell behind. Raya realized too late that she had forgotten to look at her home once more through the window of the carriage, but when she turned her head to look it was out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

"You should be able to see the capital shortly, my lady," Ser Elyn said as he trotted up to Raya, who was riding near the front of the procession on her dapple-grey mare. She nodded towards him, but her stomach gave a twist of anxiety as she looked ahead of her, trying to spot a sign of the Red Keep through the trees that stood thick around them.

For the last half of their trip she had refused to ride in the carriage. Spending days of travel without the feel of the wind on her face always drove her insane, and so as long as she kept within sight of the guards her father had permitted her to ride her horse, which they were taking with her to King's Landing. They had been traveling for nearly a month now, and had been in the kingdom of the South for just over a week. Winter was coming, and so the South wasn't quite as warm as Raya had expected, though she was still unused to the dresses she wore now, which were thinner and lighter, and showed more of her skin. It was not that she had a problem with showing more skin – it had more to do with the fact that she was unused to it, unused to the ticklish feeling her hair made as the wind brushed it against her bare arms, or to the burning sensation the sun left on her pale skin when she spent too much time in the sunlight. After all, she had been born into the long autumn, and was used to thick wool dresses and cloaks, not thin silk.

At last the trees grew sparser as the procession reached the edge of the Kingswood and Raya set her eyes on King's Landing, the capital of the South, for the first time since childhood. The first thing she noticed was that it was larger and dirtier than she had expected, and there seemed to be a haze rising off the city like the mists that sometimes rose off the moors of the North in the early morning, though this mist was thicker and dingier, and just looking at it Raya had the impression of dirt and smoke and sour wine. But she had to admit that the Red Keep itself was quite magnificent, made of stone that gleamed scarlet in the light of the noonday sun. Though the castle itself was small, undoubtedly smaller than Winterfell, its drum towers and ramparts seemed to stretch to the very sky, so that Aegon's High Hill bristled with red spears.

"We truly are far from home," Raya muttered to herself as she gazed at the city, though for the first time since she had left Winterfell she felt a strange lack of bitterness at that fact. In its place was a sense of numbness, a lack of opinion on the matter. Perhaps it was because this strange city, with its dirty haze and its red walls, had yet to seem real.

On they rode until they were coming up on the Dragon Gate, which towered over their heads as they grew closer. Carvings, intricately wrought, covered the stone frame of the gate, and as they approached Raya narrowed her eyes through the small window in the carriage (which she had been made to re-enter for their procession through the city) to discern the images. It was only when they were practically past the gate that she realized that the images were of dragons, some with men on their backs and some riderless, but all of them in mid-flight, their wings spread wide. She couldn't help the thrill of excitement that shot through her as she was reminded of the real dragons that lay somewhere within the city gates. She knew that, of the three dragons that had been hatched by Daenerys Targaryen all of those years ago, only one, Viserion, remained in King's Landing. Balerion, always the wildest of the three, had been missing since the day of Daenerys' death, and Rhaegal had been killed in the Vengeful War. But other dragons had hatched since then, dragons whose names she had long forgotten since her history lessons as a young girl, but that she knew were still alive and lived in King's Landing. One of those dragons, she remembered, belonged to her betrothed.

As they had grown up, Raya and her brothers, having been told tales of the legendary direwolves of the Starks of old, had debated countless times whether it would be better to have a direwolf or a dragon in one's company. Raya and Jon, old enough to be proud of their ancestors and their house, had proclaimed it better to have a direwolf, for they were loyal and noble, like the North, while Edrick, young and in awe of a dragon's power, declared himself a supporter of the latter. And though Raya would rather a direwolf than a dragon, she had always admired the dragon's sheer strength and terrible beauty, and the combination of fear and awe they inspired in those few who were lucky enough to have been in their presence and survived to tell about it. She couldn't deny the part that they had played in the Vengeful War, which had resulted in the North's victory, as well as the victory of the Targaryens. And as different as the North and South were, they held a connection in the legacy of the dragons, for over seventy years before Jon Snow had ridden Rhaegal, bringing ice to fire. And so Raya found that what she was most excited for in her new home, if it could be called that, were the dragons. Fire and blood.

After a short conversation with the King in the North, the City Guards had opened the gate for the northerners, and Raya's carriage passed beneath it; soon she had officially entered King's Landing. The stench of the city hit her quickly; it was a reek of smoke and sweat and shit, one that made Raya's nose instinctively scrunch up in distaste and one that made her wish, with a painful twist of her stomach, for the smell of Winterfell and the godswood, of grass and wind and cold, grey stone.

The noise, too, was different: as Raya's carriage trundled through the rough, cobblestone streets the air around them buzzed with the language and activity of nearly five hundred thousand inhabitants, if she remembered her history lessons correctly. All her life, Raya had grown accustomed to the sound of the men and women of Winterfell, who numbered in the few thousands. The largest city she had ever visited was White Harbour, which was governed by her kin through her mother's side, and from one look of King's Landing, she knew that even the seat of House Manderly could barely compare in size, though it made up for it in beauty and, Raya was quickly discovering, cleanliness.

Thus, Raya's entrance and gradual procession through King's Landing came as quite a shock, and she couldn't help the homesickness that sprouted within her and grew like a weed in her gut as around her the dirty, loud, and entirely unfamiliar city unfolded.

It seemed like a lifetime before they finally reached the Red Keep, or rather the cobbled square outside the barbican of the main gate. Here, the procession paused, and Raya gazed curiously out the window. Her father was dismounting from his horse to speak to the guards that stood on either side of the massive portcullis through which the castle lay in all of its red-stoned glory. Once her father had spoken to the guards he came around to the carriage and pulled the door open, much to Raya's surprise.

"What is it?" She asked as Eddard peered inside. He offered a hand to her and she stepped out of the carriage with her eyebrows raised, grateful for the freedom but confused as to why it was happening now, right before their entrance into the Red Keep, where surely the lords, ladies, and royal family of the South were waiting.

"A princess of the North can make her own way through the castle's gates, don't you think?" Eddard said with a small smile on his face, interrupting Raya's confusion. She felt a rush of pride, and love for her father swept over her, though she resisted the urge to hug him as the portcullis was raising slowly behind them and it was surely time to be moving. So instead she returned Eddard's smile with one of her own.

"Thank you, father," she said simply, and the King in the North rested a hand briefly on her shoulder before returning to his horse. Raya followed him to where Ser Elyn was holding the reins to her own horse. He handed them to her and, in one fluid motion, she pulled herself up and over the horse's powerful body and into the saddle. As she nudged the mare to a trot to catch up to her father, who was already passing under the gate, she wondered why Eddard had experienced this sudden change of mind. She had been made to return to the carriage as they travelled through the city, after all. But answers came as quickly as the questions themselves had: she realized that, in the city, the purpose of the carriage had been to show the common people her status among them, while here, in the castle, the purpose of her entrance on horseback was to show that she was different from the southern lords, ladies, and royalty; that she carried with her the strength and independence of the North.

"His Grace, the King in the North, Eddard Stark, and his daughter, Princess Raya Stark."

Raya heard the pronouncement before they had come out from under the gate, and it sent a shiver of energy through her. She barely had time to wonder what would be awaiting them within the walls of the Red Keep before they had emerged into the courtyard and the sight before her cut her curiosity short.

It seemed as if the entire Southern court had left the shelter of the Red Keep to witness the arrival of a portion of the Northern royal family. They were lined up, rather orderly, along the wide steps that led up to the great oaken doors of the castle, and all but the royal family bowed at the Starks' approach. The first thing that Raya noticed, strangely enough, was not the royal family itself, who were standing at the very base of the steps, but the clothing that the court was wearing. Raya had grown accustomed to wool, iron, and battered steel, and so it was a bit of a shock to see all of these highborn men and women dressed in nothing of the sort found in the North, but instead in lavish silks, linens, lace and, in the case of the guards, polished, glimmering steel. The dress she wore now, which, ever since she had put it on had felt too fancy and whose tight bodice and flowing designs had quite bothered her, she now realized was really quite plain compared to the dresses some of the ladies in front of her wore. But as quick as the shock came on, Raya pushed it away and refused to let the vast, frivolous difference between the northern and southern courts get her down.

Raya turned her attention to the royal family. It was a testament to the intriguing features of the Targaryens that they managed to stand out amongst the extravagant dresses and armour of the court behind them. Raya refused to look at Daeron first, and so she fixed her gaze quite solidly upon King Rhaegar Targaryen, who, Raya remembered from her history lessons with Maester Brishin, had been named after the Rhaegar of old. He was younger than she had expected, with a narrow face, a high, proud forehead, and sharp cheekbones. His hair was a pale, nearly translucent silver and was worn in a long braid at his back. His eyes were of a bright shade of violet, and he wore a crown of dark iron and ruby, which Raya knew was an exact replica of the crown Aegon the Conquerer had forged hundreds of years ago upon his Conquest of Westeros. Rhaegar wore a pitch-black tunic with a snarling three-headed dragon embroidered across the front in golden thread, a red-and-black checked cloak fastened by a golden dragon's claw, and a longsword in a scabbard of black leather and ruby. Yet despite the sense of importance that exuded off of him, and despite the crown that sat on his head, an easy smile stretched across his face as he gazed first at Eddard Stark, and then at Raya herself. Raya expected to feel defiant or proud in the face of this southern king, and so was surprised to find herself feeling oddly at ease.

"Rhaegar Targaryen." Raya's father was the first to speak, and only then was Raya aware of the silence that had previously fallen thick across the courtyard. Eddard pushed himself off of his horse's saddle and landed lightly on the stone of the courtyard. Raya hastened to imitate him, and dismounted from her horse as well, though she made sure to keep her movements calm and sure as she did so. Her father strode towards the southern king and they grasped hands, both smiling.

"It is good to see you again, Eddard," the Targaryen king said, his voice warm.

"And you," her father responded. Raya couldn't help but feel intrigued by the two kings' interaction. For as long as Raya remembered, every time a man had greeted Eddard Stark it had been with a bow and an air of formality and respect. Yet in this greeting, neither man bowed, and both spoke as if to an old friend. But then again, all of those men who had spoken to her father before had been subjects to the King in the North, not equals, as Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the South, by all definitions surely was.

As Raya lapsed into thought she found her gaze unconsciously sliding to Rhaegar's left, where his wife, Shaera Targaryen, who Raya remembered came from a distant branch of the Targaryen bloodline in Volantis, stood. She was tall, slim, and ethereally beautiful, with long hair of purest golden that lay in intricate curls down her back, and eyes of palest indigo. Raya realized too late that the queen had been looking at her, but when their eyes met she found that the woman was smiling at her, her eyes sparkling. Raya returned the smile before turning her attention to Rhaegar's right, where his eldest son and heir to the Iron Throne, Aemon Targaryen, stood. Aemon had inherited his mother's beauty and his father's true Targaryen features; he stood straight-backed and proud, his hair bright silver and worn short and his eyes violet. Then, without thinking, Raya's gaze moved further right and landed, rather traitorously, for she had promised herself that she would not look upon her betrothed until made to do so, on Daeron Targaryen.

With his fine features and silver-white hair, Daeron took more after his father than his mother. Raya wouldn't quite describe him as beautiful, as she so easily had Aemon; Daeron was handsome, with a squarer jaw, broader shoulders, and a certain strength about him that spoke to his reputation as a fighter, comparable in skill to some of the best knights in Westeros, though he was only eight-and-ten. While two years Aemon's junior, he was the same height as his brother, though leaner. He wore a black tunic embroidered with red thread, and a sword hung at his hip in a scabbard of black leather and wood, surprisingly simple. He wore his hair at shoulder-length, and as Raya's grey eyes moved back towards Daeron's dark indigo ones, she realized that he was looking at her too. As their gazes met, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in what appeared to be the beginnings of a smile.

"My daughter, Raya," Eddard said, and the sound of her name jerked Raya's gaze away from Daeron's, and her mind returned to the interaction taking place in front of her. Eddard gestured towards her and she stepped forwards so that she was standing in front of Rhaegar Targaryen.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you, princess," Rhaegar said, smiling and nodding towards her. Raya, unsure of how she should greet the southern king, merely smiled and nodded respectively in turn.

"Since word of the marriage between our families reached every corner of the seven kingdoms, I have heard rumour of your daughter's beauty," the king continued, turning once more to Eddard. "It seems, after all, that there was great truth in those rumours. She is more beautiful than I can say."

Raya felt suddenly uncomfortable with the way in which she was being spoken about, as if she weren't there, but beside her, her father simply smiled.

"She takes after her mother," he said, and Rhaegar nodded, smiling in turn.

"Now I must introduce you to my family," the king said, and he first introduced Shaera, who gave the Starks a dazzling smile, then Aemon, who smiled graciously before shooting Raya a barely concealed wink that reminded her of the rumours she had heard regarding his promiscuity.

"And at last, there is my second-born son, Daeron," Rhaegar said by way of introduction. "Whom you, princess, will soon be marrying."

"King Eddard," Daeron said politely, nodding towards Raya's father. He then turned towards Raya, offered her a small bow and, his eyes sparking, reached for her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She raised her eyebrows at him, and a strange feeling swept through her at the formality of his greeting. She thought suddenly of the way the Northern lords had always greeted her, with great bellows of delight and large, toothy smiles.

Raya remembered her manners just in time and, wrenching herself from her memories and the fresh wave of homesickness that had threatened to spill over at them, she gave the Targaryen a small curtsy.

"Prince Daeron," she said by way of greeting, and he smiled.

"Princess Raya."


End file.
